weakness coming on
by vega-de-la-lyre
Summary: The ship is a fat slow trader, lying low in the water with the weight of her cargo. Elizabeth snaps the spyglass shut, and looks across the water to Jack; he’s standing at the helm, and he’s smiling back at her, wicked and unholy.


For all that Elizabeth has spent much of her adult life in the company of pirates, and for all that she is one of them, now, is their Lord and King, and has the piece of eight and the swagger to prove it, she hasn't exactly had the time to engage in the more commonplace acts of piracy — there has always been something or other rather more pressing to take care of, small affairs like ending an ancient Aztec curse, hunting down the beating heart of Davy Jones, leading the Brethren Court into combat against the massed might of the East India Company. She's seen far more than her share of battles, knows the taste of blood in her mouth, the feel of flesh as it gives way beneath her blade, the smell of powder and the sweet stink of gore and of rotting flesh.

But she's never been around for anything so routine and prosaic as the taking an innocent ship.

When William is nearly a year old, Elizabeth leaves him behind in Shipwreck Cove and sails out on the _ Empress_ to accompany Jack and the _Pearl_ on a quick supply run, just dipping her toe back into the water, testing out her sea legs. They are five days out when her first mate comes to her with word of a ship on the horizon. In moments she's on the deck, wind whipping through her hair, spyglass extending smartly in her hands.

The ship is a fat slow trader, lying low in the water with the weight of her cargo. Elizabeth snaps the spyglass shut, and looks across the water to Jack, eyes finding his familiar figure in a second; he's standing at the helm, and he's smiling back at her, wicked and unholy.

She nods to him wordlessly, and Jack touches a hand to the brim of his hat and bows delighted acquiescence.

"All right," Elizabeth says, turning to Tai Huang where he stands at her elbow, and he grins. Above, the breeze snaps and tugs at heavy fabric as her men raise her colours, scarlet on black.

There is, Elizabeth thinks, something brutally beautiful about the way the _Black Pearl_ moves in the water, more swift and deadly than any other ship that sails these waters. She admires it in a preoccupied sort of way, her pulse quickening with excitement as she leans into the railing for balance, her hands clutching hard at the silky-smooth worn wood. Her hands, which are paler and smoother than they've been since, oh, since she was a girl, a housewife's hands —

The _Empress_ moves with a slower grandeur than the _Pearl_, but they are both move with deadly speed into the wind and in no time at all they are pulling up alongside the trader — the _Charming Margaret_, she can see now, picked out in careful gold letters on brightly-painted wood— neatly flanking her on both sides. The juxtaposition is weird, one of East and West, Elizabeth's junk small and trim and deadly against the placidly lumbering brigantine.

Elizabeth's hands play over on the hilt of her cutlass uneasily, and she ensures that the primed pistol tucked into her sash is in working condition. There's nothing to be so worried about, she knows that, impatient with her own nervousness; but she checks and double-checks all the same.

* * *

"Salt," Jack tells her disdainfully as they pace the boards together, "a necessary but admittedly uninspiring seasoning," and while it's not the most exciting of cargoes it's at least a practical and profitable one and Elizabeth is satisfied.

The owner of the ship, George Collier, a foppish merchant dressed in a revolting shade of green, glares at them both. "You'll suffer for these misdeeds," he says, a hand on his frightened sister's arm, "I'll see to it myself," and Elizabeth half-smirks and Jack just looks bored.

"Good luck with that, boy," Jack says, and he turns, swaying easily with the roll of the deck. For Elizabeth, the next few moments pass with agonising slowness and humming clarity:

The fop pushes his sister back, her eyes wide with surprise as she stumbles across a coil of rope and falls in a cascade of yellow skirts. Jack pauses and frowns, head cocked comically, as George Collier reaches to his waist and draws a rapier, lunging with all his power towards Jack's back ("_Georgie_," his sister, Anne, squeals from the deck, her hand clamped over her mouth) —

Elizabeth's hands move instinctively before her thoughts have time to catch up, and in the next frightened throb of her heart, her cutlass is out and slashing; Jack freezes into utter stillness at the sound of ringing steel, but before he can even turn around she's disarmed George smoothly, wrenching the hilt from his grasp with a merry flick of her cutlass.

His sword flips through the air and clatters to the deck, his hand slack at his side, her blade spinning up to press hard in the hollow of his throat. Blood drips down his fingers, staining the delicate white lace.

"You don't want to be trying that, mate," Elizabeth says with a bravado and confidence she doesn't feel, voice pitched just slightly too loud. She wonders at that, in some distant place in her mind; Jack was the first pirate she ever knew, ever saw in action, and so maybe it's not such a surprise that she imitates his style so effortlessly and unconsciously.

The smile that tugs at her lips feels brilliant and treacherous, and her heartbeat sings in her ears.

Anne starts to sob hysterically. A few red drops bead the edge of Elizabeth's blade; George stares at her down the length of the sword, furious and embarrassed, breathing hard, but he doesn't move. Jack ignores his would-be assassin, his eyes fixed on Elizabeth as she paces around George, half-blocking Jack from his view.

"Go," she says, glad of Jack's warm weight at her back; she tilts her chin up arrogantly. "And for your sister's sake, try not to be so bloody stupid next time. Another captain might not be so merciful as I am."

Behind her, Jack chokes and coughs quietly, but he subsides when she shoots him a quelling look beneath lowered lashes.

She feels suddenly very weary and drained, her cutlass heavy in her hand. She lets the point of it dig into the wood of the deck as she watches the _Margaret's_ crew scatter under the watchful eye of her men and Jack's, Anne leading her still-bleeding brother into the cabin with frightened frantic glances behind her

Jack's fluttering hands fall and rest for a moment between her shoulder blades. "If I might be so bold as to request Your Majesticalness's exalted presence in my cabin," he says, low enough that only she can hear, ringed fingers stretching in invitation, and though his words are ironic his voice is entirely level; not knowing where to look, she nods and follows him.

* * *

Through the distorted and filthy cabin windows Elizabeth watches as the _Charming Margaret_ limps away towards Port Royal. The mug of bitter rum-spiked tea is a welcome and distracting weight in her hands.

"You could've died, Jack," she says.

He drops into his chair, dark eyes unreadable. "I bloody well hope not, love," he says as he leans back, propping his boots up with a thud on the table, on top of scattered maps and charts. "I've been at this since before you were born, Lizzie, I think I know what I'm doing. Your husband's not coming for me yet."

She lifts one hand from the mug, and her fingers tremble; quickly, she clenches her fist, white-knuckled, nails biting into the palm of her hand.

"Elizabeth," he says.


End file.
